


Playing House

by floatingaway4



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Henry is a gay English major, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25095934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floatingaway4/pseuds/floatingaway4
Summary: Sometimes it feels like things are too good to be true.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 26
Kudos: 235





	Playing House

**Author's Note:**

> Normally I edit the CRAP out of things, but this was basically a stream of consciousness, all in one shot, thing I woke up and wrote this morning. I'm a little afraid that if I edit it too much, it will become a whole different story. That said, I reserve the right to decide I hate it and take it down :-) 
> 
> This is set right after the end of the book, so not in the same universe as my other stories where they've been married for a while.
> 
> I added an extra tag for lakin21 :-)

Henry has heard people refer to having a “moving day,” but he and Alex were never going to be able to confine this move to just one day. It was more like a “moving month.” 

Nothing about them has ever been uncomplicated. 

They met up in town a couple of times just after the election to take measurements, pick paint colors, and scope out the neighborhood. Neither of them could ever stay long at first, because they still had to tie up loose ends at home. No, Henry thought, at their _old_ homes. 

Then there was at least a week when the house was being outfitted with security features and it was too noisy and messy for either of them to be there. (“The neighbors must be thrilled,” Alex told Henry.) Cameras installed inside and out, doors reinforced and locks upgraded, panic buttons strategically placed around the house, bulletproof glass panels behind the front windows that neither Henry or Alex wanted replaced because they were original to the house and beautiful. 

Henry stayed at a hotel while he got things off the ground at the shelter, and went by the house during the day to check on the progress. 

He found it exceedingly wasteful to pay to have any of his own furniture moved from England, never mind that he hates most of it. And Alex isn’t particularly attached to his furniture in the White House. He picked out some of it years ago, and other pieces are priceless antiques that he certainly can’t take with him. 

Henry bought a piano on his own, assuming Alex would have no input or interest in what kind he bought, as long as there was one. Other things they shopped for when they were together, like the sectional sofa for the living room, the television, their bed, two desks, a few rugs to keep David from sliding around on the hardwood once Henry brings him over. All of the big furniture pieces arrived on separate days, and usually only their security staff was there to let the delivery people in. 

Henry started sleeping at the house as soon as their bed was delivered. 

Alex had most of his clothes and personal belongings shipped in boxes that arrived over several days. Henry feels silly tracing his fingers over Alex’s handwriting on the boxes, but no one is there to see, so he does it anyway. 

The house feels echoey and empty and he would feel lonely if he didn’t talk to Alex every night. They even facetime every evening so they can have dinner “together,” since they’re in the same time zone for once. 

But today, finally, Alex is in New York for good. With him. He showed up with a couple of big suitcases, the last few things he either needed every day or didn’t trust with movers. He was using his key to open the door just as Henry dove for the doorknob to let him in. Alex’s smile is blinding, and they just stare at each other for a few seconds until Alex laughs and says, “Can I come in?” 

They roll Alex’s bags into the foyer and shut the door before they wrap their arms around each other. Henry holds Alex’s beautiful face in his hands and whispers, “Welcome home.” 

Alex wanders around the main floor and sees a wrapped package on the kitchen island. “What’s this?” he asks. 

“Just something I bought for you,” Henry smiles innocently. 

“You already bought me a house,” Alex laughs, tearing open the paper. 

Henry covers Alex’s hands with his own, stilling them, his expression serious. “I bought *us* a house. It’s ours, not mine.” 

Alex nods just as seriously, realizing Henry heard what Alex was thinking but did not say. “I know,” and kisses Henry until he believes it. He goes back to ripping paper. 

It’s a framed quote printed in a simple, elegant font. Alex recognizes it as part of a poem Henry has read to him before. 

_i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)_

_e.e. cummings_

"I thought maybe we could hang it over the bed, if you want," Henry suggests uncertainly.

“It’s perfect,” he tells Henry, and he will never get enough of the smile that lights up Henry’s face. Sometimes he feels like he’s been in love with Henry for centuries, for lifetimes. And it will still never be enough. 

Alex unpacks his suitcases, moving his things into their shared walk-in closet or into dresser drawers Henry left empty for him. Then he walks into one of the guest bedrooms, to the other walk-in closet where they’ve decided to keep more formal clothing they won’t need every day. Alex’s boxes are still here, waiting to be unpacked, and he stares at them before deciding he doesn’t have the energy to deal with them today. He runs his fingers over Henry’s suit jackets hanging in the closet, amazed that the whole house already seems imprinted with Henry’s scent.

Alex goes back downstairs and checks out the rest of the main floor. Henry has already hung a few pictures, including their engagement photo. There is also a gorgeous black and white shot of Henry and his dad that Alex has never seen before. He stares at it until Henry comes to stand behind him. “How old were you?” 

“Four or five.” 

Alex points to the thick book Henry’s dad is holding in front of him, his huge arms encircling Henry on his lap. “What’s he reading to you?” 

“Shakespeare,” Henry tells him, bringing his arms to surround Alex the same way his father’s arms surround him in the picture. 

“Pretty sure I was reading Dr. Seuss at that age,” Alex tells him. 

“I think as soon as he became James Bond people forgot he was a trained Shakespearean actor,” Henry says. “Do you know, to this day, when I read Shakespeare, I hear it in his voice?” 

Alex covers Henry’s hands with his and leans his head back to rest against Henry’s shoulder. “You look happy.” He feels Henry nod against his hair. “I was.” He lowers his hands to Alex’s waist and pivots him around. “I am.” 

For dinner, they order Indian food from a neighborhood place they discovered the day Henry first showed Alex the house. They eat sitting on the sofa, facing each other with their legs tangled together. Henry tells Alex about the work he’s already done with the shelter and Alex just listens, marveling at the pride in his voice. He zones out for a moment, just appreciating the fact that he can sit here and talk with Henry, not texting, not on the phone or a video call, but really here where he can reach out and touch him if he wants. He has to ask Henry to repeat the last thing he said, but Henry doesn't seem to mind. 

After dinner, they dump the empty containers into a trash bag and make a note to buy a trash can for the kitchen. Alex brings his laptop downstairs and flips the router over to find the wifi password. “Why do they make the letters so tiny?” he complains. “Sweetheart, can you bring me my glasses?” He looks up to take them and sees a soft look in Henry’s eyes. “What?” he asks. 

Henry shakes his head. “Nothing. Oh, they installed an extra firewall. I have no idea why they thought that was necessary,” he smirks. 

They decide everything else can wait because they have time, all the time they want now. No planes to catch or events to attend where they have to pretend to ignore each other. They gravitate back to the couch and turn on Netflix. Henry lays his head on the arm of the couch and Alex slots himself in front of him. Henry’s hand curls over his hip and rests on Alex’s stomach, occasionally sliding under his t-shirt. 

Some time later, Alex jerks awake and realizes they’ve both fallen asleep on the sofa. He clicks the tv off with the remote, then turns a little to kiss Henry’s forehead. His voice is raspy. “Hey, wake up, Sleeping Beauty. We have a bed, let’s go use it.” 

Henry opens his eyes and rubs his neck, trying to shake himself awake. Alex sits up and stretches his arms overhead, a huge, noisy yawn escaping his lips. When he turns back, Henry has that sweet, soft look on his face again. 

“What?” he asks, laughter in his voice, reaching out to stroke Henry’s cheek. 

Henry opens and closes his mouth, and Alex can see him overthinking. 

“Just tell me, baby.” 

Henry takes Alex’s hand in both of his. “This doesn’t feel real. It feels like we’re just playing house or something,” Henry says. “I’m still afraid this is a fantasy or a dream and I’m going to wake up back at Kensington.” 

Alex laughs through another yawn. “You realize most people’s fantasy would involve moving *into* a palace, not out of it, right?”

Henry pulls Alex back down, laying on top of a sofa they picked out together, in a home they get to stay in and eat in and sleep in and wake up in together, and kisses him hard and hot and sweet. He turns his head just enough to whisper in Alex’s ear, “What fools these mortals be.” 

Alex laughs as Henry’s lips move back to his. 

They never make it to the bed that night.


End file.
